


Pushing It

by rei_c



Series: Cannibalism Aside (Samn) [23]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caring John Winchester, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Genderfluid Sam, Glitter, Guilt, Guilty John, Hunters & Hunting, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Knives, M/M, Nail Polish, Protective Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 19:25:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5796895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John hasn't seen his boys in four months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pushing It

John hasn't seen his boys in four months. He's not even sure he's ready to see them now but there's a hunt down in south Texas that he could use Sam's knack for languages on, not to mention Dean's reckless abandon for the kill. 'Sides, Dean turned 21 a month ago and it'll be nice to buy his boy a legal drink for once. 

_Should be at the motel in an hour_ , John texts. _Need me to pick up anything_? 

He's not expecting an instant response but one comes much faster than he'd thought; it's only a handful of seconds before his phone's ringing with a text from Dean that simply says, _Already here, got what we need._

John's lips twitch when he reads that -- not in amusement or humour or even acknowledgement. No, it's something a little sadder, a little deeper, a little more wary. Those boys will never need anything other than each other and as many times as John's thought maybe they're too tight, too dependent on each other, at least they -- at least they have each other. At least they aren't alone. 

He looks at the empty passenger seat and feels his mouth twist. Sometimes it's all he can do not to spiral apart at the thought that Mary's gone and he still hasn't died of a broken heart.

\--

Dean's outside, sitting on the Impala's trunk wearing jeans and no shirt, sharpening a knife, when John pulls in. John turns the car off, takes a deep breath before he gets out, retrieves his duffel from the back seat. 

"Sam'n'I are in 312," Dean says, tilting his head at the open door behind him. "Got you the one next door, if that's okay, but we can always share if you wanna." 

"Next door's fine," John says. He tosses the duffel toward his room, then goes over to Dean, waits for Dean to put the knife down and slide off the car before he wraps Dean up in a hug. Dean makes a satisfied noise, something that speaks of safety and contentment, and rubs his face just the slightest bit against John's cheek, the stubble from their five-o'clock-shadows scratching each other. "You good?" 

Dean waits to answer until they've split up again, gives John a grin and says, "Yeah, we're good," answering for himself and his brother even though John only asked after Dean. "You?" Dean asks, and then frowns, reaches up to press his thumb against John's forehead and the remnants of a clawmark John picked up from a hunt a few months ago. 

"It's healing," John says. "I was lucky it didn't take out an eye, but it's dead and burned and I'm here, so." 

"Damn good thing, too," Dean mutters. He takes another step back, tilts his head and calls out, over his shoulder, for Sam. 

John takes his eyes off of Dean, sets them in the empty doorway, and Sam appears quick and silent, like an apparition, there in the time it took John to blink. 

John opens his mouth to say hi but then his lips slam together, eyes narrowing. It's the sun, maybe, the way the light's hitting Sam's hands, but John notices the polish on Sam's nails -- metallic purple that shines blue when the light hits it a certain way -- almost instantly. From there, it's not hard to pick out the eyeliner around his fox-tilted and too-old eyes, the way his pinkish-red shirt's fitted to highlight that narrow waist he inherited from Mary, the way his hair seems to float, soft, in the air to halo his face and bring out the sharp slash of his cheekbones and the glitter under his eyebrows. 

It's like Dean can read John's mind; an instant past the normal time it would've taken John to greet Sam, Dean's blocked his view. 

"Let me handle him," Dean says, quietly, and though it should be too quiet for Sam to hear, John would almost bet that his youngest knows exactly what's being said. "You left him with me, Dad. Let me deal with it." 

There's a curious light in Dean's eyes, something even beyond the mania that normally lurks there, and John gets chills. The way that uneasiness combines with the guilt of being hit in the face by Dean's words gets John right in the gut and he nods, slowly. "You're right," he says, and though he's tempted to ask if Dean really knows how to handle this, _wants_ to handle it, John just nods again, says, again, "You're right." 

Dean moves back to the side and John moves his eyes from Dean's to -- to see Sam _right there_ , standing at Dean's side. "Hi, dad," Sam says. "Dean made stew for dinner." 

"Sounds great," John says. He looks past the make-up, past the women's clothes, sees that Sam looks healthy, well-fed and well-rested, and even though he hasn't filled out the promise of his most recent growth spurt, he doesn't look as gangly this time as he had before, all knobby knees and pointed elbows. "You're good?" 

"Great," Sam says. He reaches out, then, two fingertips grazing Dean's wrist, and says, _I can put the gear away if you and Dad wanna get caught up._

Dean ruffles Sam's hair, avoids the smack but can't get away from Sam's glare. _Oh, you big baby, it's fine_ , Dean says. _And yeah, clean up while Dad brings me up to speed? We'll eat soon._

Sam rolls his eyes but does as directed. John watches his younger son gather up the knives and whetstone quickly but with a far-too-practiced hand for a seventeen-year-old. Old currents of shame and guilt circle in John's gut but his boys are safe, ready for whatever comes their way, and he'll never feel regret for that. 

The nail polish, though…


End file.
